The Winter Soldier: Mission Remember
by IamMeWhoAreYou14
Summary: At the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, we see Bucky drag Steve out of the Patomac River and leave him on the shore. But what happened after that? This story follows Bucky as he tries to rediscover his past and figure out his scattered memories. Bucky has given himself a new mission: Mission Remember. Rated T for mentions of torture and death.
1. Mission Failed

**A/N: The previous version of this chapter has been deleted, as I found many inconsistencies with given Marvel information and the character of brainwashed Bucky. I have rewritten it to the best of my ability. I used characterizations given by Sebastian Stan himself to help with this, so I hope it's better than my first try.**

 **DISCLAIMER : _I do not own Marvel. Or Bucky. Sadly._**

 ** _»»WINTERSOLDIER««_**

 **CHAPTER ONE : **

**I stumbled ashore, dragging his weight beside me.** As I stepped through the mud, he choked slightly, and I let go of his harness. He dropped to the ground and lay still.

I stepped back, the realization of what I'd done hitting me in the face.

I had saved my mission. I didn't know why. I felt this was something different, something important to me in some way, and that feeling overpowered the orders that my handler had given me.

At my feet, my mission sputtered, coughing up river water. I could see him take a breath, and I felt a strange sense of relief. My mission was alive. He was important to me in some way and he was alive. Good.

Then I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: _guilt_. It wasn't like I felt crazy guilty, but as I looked down at my mission, this man that I had saved, and saw the bullet wound in his stomach; saw knife wound in his shoulder, and the mangled state of his face, I was stunned by the fact that I felt responsible for these wounds, and couldn't understand why.

Yes, this man called me a friend, and he called me James Buchanan Barnes, but I wasn't either of those. I couldn't be. Pierce had told me I wasn't, and that I didn't know this man. I was the Asset. I had no friends. Only missions.

But I had still saved him.

I turned away, holding my injured right arm, and limped away. I didn't look back, but I knew he was still there.

He was the first mission that I left alive and breathing.

I found myself making my way to Alexander Pierce's house. It was the last place I wanted to be – I had failed my mission, and I wouldn't exactly be commended for that – but I went out of habit. This was where he gave me most of my missions. Sometimes he gave them to me in another place, a secret HYDRA base that was. With HYDRA destroyed, this was the place to meet him. So I snuck inside his house, still limping and keeping my arm close, and went to the dining room. I put one of my many pistols on the table, in case my handler needed it, and then sat down in the chair furthest from the fridge.

And then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I sat there, waiting for Pierce till the night had passed and the sun came up. At around ten o'clock, I left, taking my pistol with me, and being as quiet as before. Obviously Pierce had gone somewhere else, and I I thought of the second most likely place to find him. I journeyed to the headquarters, under the bank. I went in through the secret entrance for HYDRA, and stood in silence at the sight before me.

It was completely empty.

The lights were on, but not a soul could be seen. I pulled out my pistol and explored, keeping an extra eye and ear out. I searched all the rooms: where I slept and stayed, the security room, the weapons vault; everything. No one. I checked everywhere. Except the my medical room.

I hated the medical room. It was supposed to heal me, but I didn't see it that way. They hooked me up to that machine, and it cleared my mind. Or so they said. All I ever felt was pain. It was excruciating. And it made me angry.

I finally worked up the guts to go into the medical room myself. I found what I had found before: nothing. Just the lights on and a room devoid of life, aside from myself.

I wasn't sure what to do. It seemed like I was alone. I couldn't find Pierce, and the headquarters was empty. If I was alone, what then? What was my mission now? What was supposed to do? I had no one to take orders from. I hadn't even given my latest mission report, though I would surely be wiped again if told him.

So I went to my room and sat down on my metal bunk. I stared at the wall, waiting for someone to come and tell me to exterminate yet another threat. No one came.

As I waited, my thoughts drifted back to my mission. I was once again confronted by my failure and my feeling of duty to the man I was commanded to kill. I didn't even try to understand why I felt the need to ensure his safety, even after I had beat him near to the point of death. I must've been malfunctioning again. I must've still been malfunctioning while I was waiting, too, because I didn't get up and go back and try to find him and kill him.

Oh boy. My handler will kill me.

 _Mission report._

 _Mission failed._

 ** _»»WINTERSOLDIER««_**

 _To be continued_...


	2. Sarah

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update, but I've been studying up Bucky's character and searching interviews with Sebastian Stan trying figure out what the heck Bucky would do. So yeah, I hope you like it! And please give me pointers and point out grammar mistakes. Thanks! ;)**

 **»» _WINTERSOLDIER««_**

 **CHAPTER TWO:**

 _ **I** **could see a small boy standing in front of me.** His image was fuzzy and translucent, and I couldn't make out his features. He was speaking to me, and my own voice responded, but they were garbled into useless chatter. He turned to what appeared to be a door, and went to unlock it. My vision changed, and I was looking at the ground, where I saw a key. My hand reached out of its own accord and picked it up, straightening and handing it to the boy. He looked me in the eyes, and I could see that his were blue. He mumbled something to me, and my mouth mumbled back. Then my hand reached out again, and clasped the boy on the shoulder. I mumbled again, and this time, a few words came clearly._

 _"…with you…to the end…line, pal."_

 _And suddenly the boy's face sharpened into focus, and I could see it was my mission, a full three heads shorter and in a much different choice of attire._

 _I stumbled backward in shock, and my mission grew and expanded to size that I knew him as, and suddenly we were standing on the edge of a snowy mountain, and the world zipped by around us._

 _"I'm with you to the end of the line," he said, clear as day. Cuts and bruises appeared on his face, and he abruptly hunched forward, gasping and holding a hand to his stomach. A red patch spread underneath his hand, and he raised his head and stared at me. His eyes were filled with betrayal and sorrow. He reached a hand toward me and shouted in a desperate voice:_

 _"Grab my hand!"_

 _I stared at the offered hand, wondering if I should take it._

 _Then I launched myself at him and punched him, hard, kicking his feet out from under him and shoving him backward. He lurched and fell over the side of the mountain cliff._

 _"Bucky, NO!"_

I jolted awake with a sharp yell and immediately drove my metal fist in the nearest object. A metal wall. The clang of metal against metal reverberated through my little room and my ears rang. I panted, wondering what the heck I had just thought. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and slowly retracted my arm. What had I been thinking?

I had fallen asleep, and had the weirdest dream I'd had in years.

One of the few I actually had, anyway.

I scratched my head, and tried to retrieve the scenes, to try to decipher them. But even as I tried to bring them back, they were fading. The words were slurring, and the pictures were blurring together.

I desperately scrambled to rethink them before they could slip away, but to no avail. Only a few images stayed, but even those twinkled in and out, teasing me.

I fumed, angry at not being able to remember. I tried a few more times to recall them, but got no further. I stood up and grabbed the edge of my metal bunk, ripping it from from its anchors and slicing into the opposite wall with it. It stuck like a knife in a rib cage.

I stood there, seething and breathing hard. Adrenaline pumped through my system, and I felt like snapping someone in two. What was wrong with me?

After a bit, the churning in my stomach subsided, and my brain's incessant screaming quieted to a dull whine. I sank to the floor, my eyes stuck on nothing, staring into space. My mouth hung slightly ajar, and even with the lack of noise, my hearing tunneled and every click or whir I heard sounded like an echo.

Suddenly, I blinked.

A word flashed into my head and stuck. A name.

 _Sarah_.

I blinked again, then frowned.

Who was Sarah? Did I know her at some point? Was she alive? Was she that one woman that I had shot two days ago; the one with the red hair?

No. That wasn't it. I rubbed my face with an exasperated grunt. I typed "Sarah" on the keyboard of my brain, and ran the search.

I came up with another word: mother.

Okay, so Sarah was somebody's mother. But whose?

Who.

I was using that word a lot today.

I ran name through my head again a few more times, coming up with nothing else. But I had made progress. I knew that for some reason, the mother named Sarah was important to me, in some way.

I got up off the floor, my metal arm whirring as it moved with my motions. I glanced up at the digital clock embedded in the wall above the door of my cell. Two-thirty A.M. The place was still lit, and just as silent. No one had come while I was asleep.

I would've known if they had.

This place was always bustling with scientists and doctors laden with needles and vials, or bodyguards equipped with machine guns and bulletproof vests. It was never empty, and I was never allowed anywhere in the facility without a troop of gun-wielding guards trailing behind me. With the place deserted for so long, and with no one come to retrieve me, I knew that HYDRA had been defeated, and that my handler would have gone into hiding, if he wasn't dead. Unfortunately, I was _never_ that lucky.

But I had a duty to Pierce. I had to find him, because it was my job. I hated the man, like I hated the brain wiping, but I was the Asset, and I belonged to him. It was up to me to find him.

I reached into a drawer and grabbed my daily amount of rations. They were made specifically for my body, with just the right amount of calories, carbohydrates, and vitamins to keep me healthy; no more, and no less. But they were filling, and I was hungry.

Even the Asset requires food.

I grabbed my holster again and buckled it into place, and changed back into my leather vest. I replaced my knives, my missing guns, and loaded up with extra magazines.

As I finished strapping my vest in place, I caught a glimpse of my mask. I had had to get a new one, because I had lost my previous one. I stared at it for a second, then picked it up. It felt light in my hand, like all the others, but I knew that as soon as I put it on, it would stifle me; make it hard to breathe.

I took a deep breath and put it on. Pierce said to wear it at all times when available. So I did.

I left the hideout, sneaking along the dark streets and wondering where exactly I would check first. Pierce wasn't an assassin, but he could hide like a chameleon in a forest. If he had managed to escape arrest and death, where would he go? Home?

No. They'd know to check there. Or would they? Would they assume that Pierce would know that it would be stupid to go back to his house? Or would they check there first?

I finally decided to just hunt around, everywhere, including his house, until I found him.

It would probably take a while.

 _ **»»WINTERSOLDIER««**_

 _To be continued..._


	3. Run and Escape

**A/N: Here's chapter three! Hopefully, I can keep this updated, but school is like being an Avenger sometimes: you don't choose when it calls you to duty. Anyway, so I hope you enjoy this new chapter. Please review! ;)**

 ** _»»WINTERSOLDIER««_**

 **CHAPTER THREE :**

 **Eleven hours later, it's two o'clock in the afternoon,** and I'd found no one. I made my to the top of a tall building that overlooked the area. As I gazed out over my surroundings, I could see that the entire city was in a dull state of panic, and smoke is still rising from the helicarriers crash site. Helicopters hovered overhead, taking in the scene and displaying it throughout the world. I could see rescue teams still working; ambulances pulling up and driving away, laden with the dead and injured; police and sniffer dogs scrounging the area for survivors and traitors.

The helicarrier crash left no one unaffected.

I stared for a while, looking on as the wreckage burned. My eyes played over the river, at the pieces of metal still visible under the Potomac, and found myself glaring at the spot that I had dragged my mission ashore. I stood still, trying not to think about him. But instead I kept thinking: was he alive? Did he die after I left? Was he rescued? Who is he? Why did he save me? Why did I save him? What is wrong with me?

Finally, I gave up and pulled out my sniper rifle and swung it up. I peered through the scope, and I could see, very clearly, the place where I had dragged him ashore and left him. There was an indent in the mud, and a set of footprints next to it that weren't mine. I deduced that someone had come down from a helicopter and picked him up.

Good.

I followed the path that I had taken away from him, and saw that many pairs of footprints followed my trail as well, out of the mud and into the woods.

I was being hunted.

I quickly slung my rifle on my back and ducked low, snaking to the edge of the building and leaping free, making my way to a lower level. I kept jumping from roof to roof, my feet landing with a thud on each building, until I reached ground level.

As soon as my booted feet hit asphalt, I bolted, racing through the open streets. I had gotten maybe two hundred yards when suddenly, I heard a voice yell: "Daddy! Look! A man with a metal arm!"

I whipped around, pulling out my pistol and aiming it at the speaker. It was little girl, clinging to her father's hand. I faltered, as I always felt queer about shooting children, but my aim never left the girl's head. People screamed and ran, but the father yanked his daughter behind him a pushing her behind a statue. My aim switched to his head, and he threw his hands up as if his arms could block my bullets.

An image flashed through my head; a half second of a scene: _the fuzzy silhouette of two figures kicking at a smaller one. The smaller on was on the ground, his arms raised, trying to protect his face. I heard my voice shout out something, and the two other figures turned in surprise. Then they zoomed up in my vision as if I had rushed them._

I staggered backward, dropping my aim to the ground and blinking hard. Another image appeared: _my mission, laying on the ground, small and thin, with blood trickling out the corner of his mouth and a defiant, grateful look on his was the one that the other figures had been beating. My hand reached out and he took it, and I helped him to his feet._

I rasped, staring at my hand that was still gripping the pistol, and I dropped it. It clattered to the ground and I raised my head. The father had taken my hesitation and ducked behind the statue with his daughter. People were still frantically scrambling away, glancing back at me and screaming.

I stood there, staring at my hand, running what I had just seen through my head. It was still there. I could feel it. But who was that boy I helped up? I couldn't remember. Who was it? It was there, so close I almost touch it!

I must've stood there for longer than I thought.

A pop. A sharp pain seared through my right arm. A bullet.

I started with a short yell, gripping my arm and turned toward my attackers. Three police cars had pulled up on either side of me, blocking the roadway. Twelve policemen scrambled out of their vehicles, weapons training on me. I couldn't tell if they planned to take me alive, or if they were ordered to kill.

I assumed they were going to take me alive, right up until I sneezed.

Then they'd shoot me.

I straightened up, letting go of my injured arm and staring at them, not batting an eyelash. On one hand, I wanted to gun them all down for daring to hurt me. What could they do against the Asset? On the other hand, something held me back. A strange sense that I couldn't place, like someone was holding my hands.

"Get down!" one of the policemen shouted. "Get on your knees and put your hands on your head!"

I stood still. I heard twelve guns click. And then I leaped in the air, landing five feet away from my original position and running toward the police cars to my left. I heard the pop-pop-pop of their weapons as they fired at me, but I dodged and ducked till I reached the first car. I pushed two policemen into their counterparts and jumped onto the hood of the car, vaulting over it and sprinting for my escape: a manhole.

The policemen behind yelled at each other, random orders that would do them no good. I flipped the manhole cover off with a flick of my metal wrist and dived into the blackness.

Immediately I tucked into a ball, rolling as I hit the ground and coming to my feet. I broke into a sprint and ran blindly through the dark. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of night vision googles. I slipped them on, my eyes adjusting and my brain filtering through my surroundings.

Behind me I heard the policemen, still yelling for backup and helping each other down to try to catch me.

Despite it all – my sudden memory, my failure, and my current situation – I smirked grimly underneath my mask; a knowing, cruel smile.

They could chase me, but they couldn't catch me.

I was like a ghost.

What did people call me?

Ah, yes.

 _I was the Winter Soldier._

 ** _»»WINTERSOLDIER««_**

 _To be continued..._


	4. Dogs and Cheetos

**I kept running, ducking into sewage pipes and climbing through the drainage.** The yelling of my assailants grew fainter and fainter behind behind me, and after a while, it disappeared altogether. But I went on. I was being hunted now.

Not that I was worried. The chances of them catching me were slim to none. Unless, of course, they took drastic measures. I was unstoppable.

I knew my way around the city. I knew the sewage like I knew the back of my hand. I could get anywhere I wanted to go. But I had a few questions. Many questions, actually.

I stumbled suddenly, bringing myself back to my current situation. I slowed down and glanced to my left.

The cleft of concrete that I was standing on dipped into ten foot wide river of rainwater and sewage. On the other side was another two foot wide concrete cleft. I needed to get to the other side. I leaped across.

Fire and explosions erupted in my mind, and I was jumping across a pit of fiery rubble as a beam I had been standing on fell away from my feet.

I hit the ground on the other side and I was back in the sewage system.

I fell against the wall by accident, startled by the sudden flash of memory. But as soon as I tried to recall it, it faded, until I was left with nothing but a migraine. I frowned with disgust and kept moving.

I kept on for what I estimated to be eight miles, all underground, surrounded by sewage and the squeaking of rats. I slowed to a walk and looked up, trying to find an opening. I located one, and climbed through. I was in the middle of a quaint little neighborhood, with matching white houses so close together I could easily bounce from roof to roof.

I was till taking in my surroundings when a soft, wet, warm thing slapped me in the forehead. I started, ducking back in the drainage. I wiped my face. What was that? I lifted the top again, slowly this time, peering around. I peeled off the goggles and put the back in my pocket. Four little feet danced into my line of view, and stopped right in front of me. I drew back, still starting at the furry little appendages. A black wet nose snuffled under that manhole cap, a pink floppy tongue sticking out behind it.

A dog.

I pushed the manhole up higher, and the full animal came into view. It was a scruffy-looking German Shepard, a type of dog I had worked with on a few occasions. It had only one eye; the other was covered in jagged black scars. His good eye shone with a kind of light that made my metal arm seem a little lighter. He seemed to smile at me with his glistening white teeth. He licked a wet strip across my mask and eye and I shoved him away.

"No," I said. My voice was rough and muffled, both from lack of use and the stifling mask.

The dog whimpered and pawed at the cover.

"Move," I ordered, and the dog backed up, sitting down on its grimy haunches as I crawled out of the sewer, glancing around. As soon as I was standing upright, the dog leaped up and tried to lick my face again. I shoved him off.

"No," I said.

The dog obeyed, instead circling me and gazing up at me with adoration.

Dogs are the dumbest things sometimes.

"Go," I said.

The dog turned and trotted off down the street, his hindquarters wagging as he walked. With him out of the way, I sneaked toward the nearest house. There were no vehicles in the driveway, nor any other signs of life. I presumed that whoever lived in this house was gone for day.

I wasted no time in getting in. I pried a window open, looked around, and slipped indoors. The house was cluttered; food bowls were scattered about, dirty clothes on the floor, and beer bottles lined the shelves. The whole place smelled of sweat and urine that hadn't been cleaned properly.

I snuck around, picking up clothing articles that fit me, and rifling around in drawers until I found enough paper money to make a thick wad of random bills. I grabbed a jacket and a hat, stuffing them into a black backpack, along with the rest of the clothes and the money. I went to leave. I paused as I passed a bowl filled with orange finger-like things. They smelled okay. My stomach moaned. I picked one up and tried it. Then I picked up the bowl and dumped the rest into my backpack.

And then I fled.

 _To be continued..._

 _-•-•-•-_

 **A/N: IM SO SORRY I HAVENT UPDATED! I lost momentum and the there was school, and then I forgot this fic even existed, and then I found it a few days ago, and then I felt really guilty, so then I tried to add more. IM SO SO SORRY! Anyway, Bucky might have a friend! AND OH MY GOD HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEW TRAILER FOR CIVIL WAR?! IF YOU HAVENT HERES A LINK! MUST WATCH!**

 **Anyway, I'm really sorry and I'll try to be better about updating. When summer vacation comes, I promise it'll be better. (Watch me fail.)**


	5. God Help Him

**After I got back to the sewers, the first thing I did was change clothes.** They smelled like Satan's dirty socks, but whatever. I'd smelled worse before. I stuffed my old uniform into the backpack, keeping a small knife out with me. The mask went into the pack, too.

After that, I sat down and ate all the crunchy, orange finger-things. My own fingers were covered in the same orange stuff that covered the food when I finished, but it was good.

Now that I thought about it, I couldn't ever remember eating during my time with HYDRA. They had always just injected me with some dark grey sludge. I guess it had been the all vitamins and minerals and protein an enhanced being would need, but I had never actually put something in mouth and chewed… Honestly, I had almost forgotten how to eat for a while.

After using a wet finger to pick up the crumbs, I got up, threw my backpack on, and started to run again.

I had literally gone about fifty feet when I heard a sharp bark and the clattering of toenails. I tripped and fell on my face, landing right on my injured arm, which I had forgotten about. A second later, a heavy weight crushed me into the concrete. Being smashed against the floor definitely brought that wound back into mind. My eyes bugged, and I rolled over, grabbing at my attacker's throat. I looked up, straight into the dark brown eyes of the same dog I had met before. He smiled at me, a drop of saliva hitting me in the face.

I glowered at him and shoved him off. "Hello, again."

He yipped; I popped him on the nose. "Shh!"

The dog whimpered and licked my hand, which still had some of the orange stuff on it. I sighed exasperatedly. "Go away."

He sat down and shut his jaw.

I couldn't believe it. I was the Winter Soldier, the ghost assassin that everyone despised and feared, and here was this mangy dog that decided I was some sort of… cuddle post.

I swatted at him. "Go away'."

The dog nipped playfully at my hand.

"Alright," I said. "Fine."

I picked myself up and fixed my backpack. My flesh arm was yelling at me something fierce, but what was I supposed to do? The bullet wound, plus the break that my mission had inflicted a few days ago (though mostly healed), was enough to make me wince. I decided that as soon as I found a secure place, I'd fish the bullet out. But right now, I needed to keep moving. I glared at the dog one more time, then set off at a trot, quickening to run, and then to a sprint. I heard the clicking of toenails behind me, but ignored them.

If that dog was stupid enough to try and follow me, he could go right ahead and do that.

* * *

I finally stopped under a manhole cover, panting slightly. I looked up at the cover and listened for cars. Many cars meant many people; few cars meant few people.

I decided that wherever I had stopped was a good place, and sat down, unslinging my backpack and sighing heavily. I leaned against the wall, gripping my backpack in my hands, wondering what to do now.

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to discover myself; see if I really was who my mission had said I was. I also wanted to leave behind the horrors that I had been forced to commit. But where would I start? The only lead I had was the mere word of the man I had been assigned to kill. Yes, I felt I could trust him, but should I?

I figured I didn't really have a choice. I almost smiled.

No choice. I never had a choice before, and it seemed I still didn't now.

I shifted, wincing at the dull throb that was returning to my arm as my adrenaline receded.

Right. I had to take care of that.

I pulled the small retractable knife I had kept in my pocket out, flicking it open. I pulled jacket and shirt off, ripping the hem of the shirt for a bandage. I located the bullet wound: a small hole just above my bicep. There was no exit wound, as expected. The hole and the area around it was layered with dried blood. I spat on it, rubbing away the blood with my hand. Once I had a clear view of my injury, gritted my teeth and steeled myself. I stabbed the knife into my arm, twice, making twin cuts just to the right and left of the wound. I switched the knife between cuts, wiggling the blade to edge the bullet out. The pain was excruciating. I may be enhanced, but digging around with a sharp metal blade as enough to make me bite my lip till it bled.

Finally, the bullet popped free. I heaved a ragged breath and dropped the knife, picking up the makeshift bandage and wrapping my arm tightly. I wiped the knife on my pants, then realized that may not have been the smartest thing to do. If I wanted to blend in, I couldn't really walk around with blood on my pants.

Whatever. I leaned against the wall, trying to ignore my aching arm. Through the course of diverting myself, I remembered that usually, there was once syringe of fast-acting pain killer that I carried around in case of serious injury during a mission. I couldn't concentrate if I was distracted by pain. I was usually just supposed to suppress it, but sometimes I needed a quick dose.

On that note, I rifled through my backpack, pulling out my uniform pants and digging through the pockets. Ah ha, there is was. I drew out the syringe, uncapped it, and quickly administered it. Exactly ten seconds later the pain in my arm receded. I took the needle and crushed it in my left hand, tossing the pieces into the sewage.

That done, I sat and dozed for about a half hour. Images of glazed eyes and pools of blood filled my head. Eventually, I was awaked once again by the sound clicking toes. I groaned internally. I glared in the direction of the sound and waited. Sure enough: that same, smelly, grimy, stupid, scar-faced dog came waltzing up, grinning like a madman. He trotted up till he was less that two feet from my boots, and sat down. I gave him my best murder face. He didn't move. He just sat there, panting, and drooling.

We stared at each other, but I finally gave up.

"Fine," I growled. "Stay."

The dog grinned even wider lay down at my feet, laying his head on my boots. I nudged him off, and he huffed at me. I got to my feet.

"I dunno why you're laying down. I gotta keep moving."

The dog bounced to his feet. I had hoped he would just sleep.

I climbed up the ladder, pushing the manhole aside and peering outside. I was right, no people in sight. I crawled out, pushing the manhole aside and standing up. The dog whined and scrabbled at the ladder below. He couldn't get out by himself. I looked down at him, and he gave me the sorriest face I have ever seen. I set my jaw. No. If he couldn't make it up, he couldn't come with me.

"Sorry."

I closed the manhole cover and turned away.

Immediately the air was filled with the sound of muffled howling; I cringed. I almost went back, but the dog had to stay there. I made my way around the corner, trying to ignore the dog's mournful cries. They reminded me of a dog who's master I had sniped. Even as I had retreated back to my hole among HYDRA, I could hear the dog wailing. I hadn't even seen the dog; just heard him, but for some reason, that had stuck with me for a while. I did eventually forget about it, but this new dog brought the memory back afresh.

I walked on, pulling the brim of my hat down, determined to resist the pulling on my mind, but my will was broken when a woman poked her head out her window into the dark. She looked at me and hollered:

"Do you hear that?"

I hesitated. I hadn't talked to a normal human being since… ever. The idea of making talk – any kind of talk – with one of the people of the "mankind" that I had "protected" for so long seemed forbidden.

"Hear what?" I lied.

"That howling," she said, looking toward the sound of the dog. "Poor dog. By the sound of it, he isn't in too good a spot."

"Hm," I replied.

"It's always so sad," she went on, looking gloomy. "When people dump their dogs. The poor things; they got no one then. All alone." She receded into her apartment. "God help him."

I stood, staring after her.

 _All alone_. That's exactly what I was. Of course, I wanted it that way. People would simply turn on me and hand me over to whoever offered the highest price. But a dog couldn't give me away, especially not that one. Even though he was stubborn, he would obey me, and he wasn't a real barker, and anyway, it might easier to blend in with a dog by my side…

The dog gave another wretched wail.

I hissed sharply and turned on my heel, heading toward the manhole. Why did I feel guilty? I didn't dump him, did I? No. I didn't even know this dog. I could leave him here. It wouldn't be my fault.

 _But you'd've left him down there alone_ , said a strange voice in my head. _Left him for dead, just like your mission._

 _Shut up,_ I snapped, but I didn't stop till I got to manhole. I reached down and yanked off the cover, and dropped down inside. The dog leapt aside for me, and then launched himself on me, whining and making happy grunting noises. He licked at my face; I shoved him off.

"Down," I said sharply.

The dog promptly stopped his barrage and sat on his haunches, but his eyes bored into me with fear and glee. Glee that I had returned; fear that I would leave.

I reached into my pack and pulled out the uniform pants again. There was literally anything I could ever need in them. I found my tiny grappling hook and ejected it across the sewers, cutting off the hook and the ejector. I wasn't worried about losing it; I had backups for everything.

I tied the rope around the dog's neck, then rolled up the extra rope into my hand. The dog just sat there through the whole thing, he tail thumping. I knelt next to him, grabbed his legs, and hoisted him onto my shoulders, holding his legs on either side of my head. I steadied him with one hand, and with the other, climbed out into the open air. I let the dog tumble off my shoulders as I emerged, and he rebounded with a spark and a leap. I glared at him, but I wasn't angry. On the contrary; I felt satisfied.

I stood, releasing some of the rope in my hand, and the dog pranced up to me, nuzzling my metal hand. I gently brushed his head, not really feeling anything under my cold fingers, but knowing he was there all the same. A breath of smile wisped across my face. Why, I had no idea.

"This way," I said, and strode back in the direction I had come from. The dog trotted merrily at my heels.

As we passed the woman's place, I saw her peer through the curtains, a smile upon her face. I looked down at the idiot dog at my side and snorted. I really was pleased though, and annoyed, of course. But as I glanced back at the woman, I thought of what she said.

" _God help him._ "

 _Well, I sure ain't God_ , I thought. _But I guess I did okay._

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 **A/N:** I apologize for my laziness. I had fallen off this story, with school in the way, and after Civil War came out, I was worried I wouldn't be able to inegrate my fic into what they added on Bucky. Even though it's a fan fiction, I want it to be at least a LITTLE accurate. Anyway, very special thanks to **haldirflet** , who left such encouraging and hilarious reviews. It was literally like Peitro Maximoff came in with a machine gun and said, "Get off your arse." I promise I will get him to Romania, haldirflet. No worries.

Also, if anyone is wondering why Bucky stabbed himself twice to get the bullet out, I got that from a book. Some guy got an arrowhead or a bullet stuck in him, and in order to get it out using rather primitive tools, they cut two gashes and forced the bullet out that way, I think that's because if they just dug the knife into the wound itself, it would bury the bullet further or shave of bits of mega, into the wound. Again, that's just my theory, but I got that technique from a book. Just in case any of you are medical students and want to eat my head right now. ;)

Again, many apologies. I'm feeling the fire again though, so hopefully I'll update more often.

Goodnight. It's 2:20 AM where I live. I'm dying here.


	6. A Wanted Man, Tacos, and Notebooks

A/N: Okay, I'm sorry. The bold and italics are sucking right now, so if it gets a little weird, I'm sorry. Sometimes I hate this site. Anyway, here's the latest installment. I don't own Bucky, but I wish I did. Like, friend-wise. Not pet-wise. I'm not HYDRA.

* * *

For the next couple of weeks, I simply tried to keep out of sight. I found out after checking thrown away newspapers that I wasn't necessarily being hunted specifically, but all of SHIELD and HYDRA's secrets were exploited, meaning that I was exploited, which meant I had to stay low. It was fairly easy; I returned to the more populated parts of New York, New York City and a few other surrounding places. Lots of people running around aimlessly, completely ignoring everyone else, including me. The best place to hide is in plain sight. I kept on the move still, of course, but stayed roughly in the same wide area. I had stolen a fair amount of money from the smelly crack-house I had stopped at, so getting food wasn't too much of a problem. Unfortunately, the prices of food in that places I decided to stay were crazy.

After encountering several places that I had to leave because of pricing, I remembered that the last time I had been out spending money on anything, things had been a lot cheaper. I snatched a menu from the table as I left the restaurant and scratched "less money before" in the laminated surface. I then stuffed the pilfered menu in my backpack. I wasn't going to forget anything else again.

I high stepped it the rest of the way out of the restaurant and back outside. The dog was standing next small pillar that stood outside the restaurant, waiting for me. He sniffed my hand.

"No food. Just wait," I said.

Now that I wasn't on HYDRA's vitamin injections or whatever they were, I was starting the realize the importance of food. I had thought I could go for a week or so without anything, but after three days my stomach was screaming at me, and I felt nauseated. So out came the bills. I was in a new district at the moment though, so my few preferred places to get food weren't anywhere near me.

I searched around, getting myself kicked out of one restaurant for being not being "anywhere near the presentable standard of dress." I finally found a small taco shop outside a theatre. I had no idea what "tacos" were, but they smelled pretty dang good, and they were cheaper than anything else I'd seen in a while. I bought one, took a bite, and caught the eyes of the dog. I bought a second one, and tossed it on the ground for him begrudgingly. I was really hungry.

The dog and I finished our tacos at the same time, and immediately I went and bought two more. We wolfed those down, too. Then I bought two more, and we ate those. And two more, and again, and again till both the dog and I had consumed nine or ten tacos each. I almost bought another two, but I remembered that these actually did cost something, and that I was quickly using that something on one meal. I decided I'd buy a bottle of water, and then move on for the night.

The taco guy gave me a strange look as I bought the water. I don't know why.

After that, we walked for about three hours. Then I shut down for the night.

I slept on the roofs of short building most of the time. I would always leave the dog on the ground, which made him nervous at first. I didn't tie him to anything because A) If the dog found someone during the night that he liked batter he could just leave, and B) The dog could keep watch if he decided he really did want to.

The dog never did find anyone else. One day I thought he had; I had woken up and found that he wasn't anywhere is sight, which had been both a relief and a slight disappointment. But of course, two hours later, while I was waiting to cross a street, he popped back up again and bit my hand. I think he was mad at me for running off, which is annoying because he's the one who ran off.

I kept up my routine, switching from city to city once a week, and never in any particular order, keeping the authorities off my trail.

Eventually, due to a rather intense interrogation by a six or seven-year-old, I gave the dog a title. Apparently, animals are given names when you take them under your care. I tried to explain to the boy that I hadn't taken this dog under my care at all; he just sort of happened and never left me no matter how hard I tried to get rid of him. The kid simply declared that, heck, maybe the dog had taken me under his care. I tried to argue that I was under no ones care; I was my own man now. The kid just glanced between me and the dog, shrugged and walked away.

I gave the dog no food that night. He didn't complain, but then, he couldn't speak, so maybe he was.

I looked down at him from my rooftop. He was laying down, poised erect and alert. Stupid dog. I laid back down. Okay, so maybe I should give him a title, like I had. I was the Winter Soldier, and he was… the dog.

The Собака...

* * *

I started to remember more and more, but often it would fade into a slippery rope that I tried desperately to cling to. Finally, I decided to write down what I remembered, but I had no paper, and nothing to write with. So I took some of the last bits of my money, bought two packets of notebooks (two packs of three, and pocket-sized one for handiness), and a packet of ink pens, and started to record my thoughts. Every time I even thought I remembered something, I jotted it down. Sometimes I wrote in English, other times in Russian, and sometimes in Romanian. Random things that meant nothing to me now, but surely had meant something to me before. Numbers, places, names, faces, and even feelings: I wrote them all down.

I wrote small, so I could fit everything, and sometimes I grew frustrated and snapped my pen, or chewed an end to little plastic splinters. If a memory appeared, I would grab any random notebook, my pocket-sized one or one of the others, and scratch it down. If it faded to quickly, I wrote down what had triggered the memory. Bit by bit, the blank pages were filled with my messy scrawling hand. Sometimes I would pull out a book and flip through the pages, scrolling over the words, trying to picture them in my head. It got easier and easier to recall the memories.

But strangely enough, very few of the memories were actually about me. Most of them were about stupid things that I had seen: hazy images of theme parks, tastes of things I hadn't even touched in decades, names that I couldn't place faces to, and some faces that I couldn't place names to. However, there was one face that I could name. My mission's face. I could remember. His name was Steve Roger. (Or maybe it was Rogers. Either way.) But whenever I thought about him, I was overcome with a wave of guilt, and suddenly, more things that just him became clear. But they weren't pleasant things.

Him, clutching at me as I felt my hands slip, and fall away as the railing broke away from the side of the speeding train. Falling, screaming, and hearing my name: "Bucky, no!"

I tried not to think about him. I knew that he was the key to discovering me, but I couldn't stand the thought of him. I could very clearly recall repeatedly punching him in the face as he lay on the floor, completely at my mercy, but not asking for it. How could he claim to be a friend and then let me do those things to him? It was so confusing, or at least that's what I told myself. I understood, but the truth seemed too… Impossible to be truth.

However, not all my memories were good ones. More often then not, images of the men, women, and even children that I had unwittingly killed flashed into mind. They all had a bullet wound through their skull, or their chest, or their throats crushed by my hand, and not always the left one. Children left screaming while their parents lay in a growing pool of blood. Hearing the last whisper of the victim: a breath, a prayer, a curse, or simply nothing. Cold, dead eyes looking me in my own dead ones, their faces frozen in horrified expressions, like I was Medusa, turning them to stone.

Those memories did not get written down. I didn't want to remember, I didn't need to write them to down to remember. Those memories came unbidden, at all hours of the night.

* * *

Even with all my progress, I felt like I was missing a huge piece of the puzzle. Sometimes, I didn't wait for a trigger, I simply opened the dark recesses of my mind and dug, searching. Occasionally, I would get so deeply immersed in what I was doing that I would forget what I was doing and someone would bump into me or I would brush against something, and then I would lash out. I usually managed to catch myself before I backhanded someone, or something.

I needed more than just tidbits of what I used to know. I needed a frame of who I used to be, who I was, so that I could fill it in. I needed something that could connect me to my past, or at least give me some sort of mental tug. I had no clue where to find anything like that, unfortunately, but one day I did.

I was rooting through the discarded newspapers to see if a bolo had been set out for me yet—and because hey, I was curious about… Whatever the newspapers talked about, I suppose—and was searching through the headlines when I found a smaller article in the breaking news section:

WAR HERO NOT A HERO?

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, World War II hero and best friend of Steve Rogers, has been known for years as the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of America. His name has been carved in the Wall of Honor, and a special section of the Smithsonian's Captain America Museum has been set aside to remember him by. But recent activities have disclosed some disturbing facts, and now, the so-called "war hero", previously presumed dead, has been officially proven to be masked assassin that caused several deaths in the past few months, including that of Nicholas J. Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., which was recently disintegrated by Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and U.S. veteran Samuel Wilson. No one knows how Barnes survived, or why he is killing so many people, but the popular hypothesis is that he is with H.Y.D.R.A., which has arisen from the ashes of S.H.I.E.L.D.. But no matter what Barnes's motives are, one thing is for certain: James Buchanan Barnes is no longer a hero, but a villain.

—

In smaller print below that:

—

If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of this man, please contact the FBI [(901) 747-4300], the CIA [(703) 482-0623], or your local police force [911]. A reward of $200,000 will be issued to anyone with legitimate information. Though we have no recent full body picture of Barnes, we do know that he has a mechanical left arm with a red star painted on the upper bicep. This is his defining trait. He is around 6', blue eyes, brown hair, looks around 28 and 30 years of age. Last seen in full black gear: combat boots and a leather vest with only one sleeve on the right side. Has an enormous array of weapons. Do not try to approach him yourself; he is incredibly dangerous. Call one of the numbers above, and hide yourself. Thank you for your help and cooperation.

—

Two pictures went with the article. One of them a more recent picture of me: shoulder length hair and the beginnings of a metal shoulder. I shuddered inside; the picture was taken during one of my cryogenic freezing moment. The other picture however, showed the face of a young man, wearing an old formal military uniform hat and a small, contented smile.

My eyes widened. It was me, me from another lifetime. I was suddenly standing in a crowd people, wearing the uniform in the picture, looking up at a clouded stage. I couldn't see what was on the stage, but it must've been interesting, because everyone was staring in the same direction. Everything was fuzzy, but I could see a woman standing in front of me. Steve Rogers, or at least a skinny kid with his face, stood next to me, trying to hand some foodstuff to a girl in front of him, who gave him a hazy grimace. I smirked sadly at his flirtatious failure, and the memory faded.

I grabbed out my pocket notebook and scribbled down the memory before it could slip away. As I reread the words I has written, I stuffed the newspaper in my backpack. I needed to be careful. They were really after me now, but fortunately, I wasn't exactly fitting the description they had given. I stood up, yanking Собака (who was trying to eat a cardboard food container) after me, and pulling my hat a little further down over my eyes.

I had one last stop to make (maybe two). The article had said that some of my history had been displayed in a museum. The Smithsonian. I had no idea where that was, but I was going to find out. That place could hold the information about myself that I simply couldn't conjure. It was worth a shot, anyway.

After that, I needed to leave the country.

I wasn't welcome in America.

* * *

To be continued...

* * *

A/N: Собака is simply "dog" in Russian. It's pronounced soh-BAH-kah. I know. Bucky, so original. Sorry this took a while, but Word says it's almost three pages long so, I hope you like it. Sorry if the articles were hard to read. They were a lot easier to read on word with Times New Roman and italics. So sorry again.

And haldirflet, Bucky will be making his way to Romania soon enough. Just you wait. *wink wink*

Alright, I hope you liked it. If you have any suggestions, see any grammar mistakes, or any plot holes, let me know. Thanks!

\- IamMeWhoAreYou14


	7. My Name Is Bucky

**A/N: Good news! The bold and italics are working again! I don't know what happened yesterday, but it's up and running now, so that's good. Also, quick note to all the people afraid for Собака: he will fine. I don't kill dogs. Especially not cute, faithful, loving dogs that help out my most beloved Marvel character in the world. So don't worry. HE WILL LIVE.**

 **(BTW, two or three months have passed since he found Собака.)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky, or any of the MCU, but I do own Собака, and if yo** **u steal him, I will kill you. (jk I won't.)**

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **The Smithsonian, as I soon learned from tourist pamphlets and careful investigation,** was located in Washington D.C., the capital of the United States of America. It wasn't just a single museum, it was many, and the display I was looking for was located in the National Air and Space museum. I had to get there. Unfortunately, D.C. was where I was most likely to be caught. Not only had that been the center of the destruction that I had caused, but capital cities are always the most watchful when there's a terrorist or something on the loose.

I carefully made my way from Boston, where I had been staying, to Washington D.C.. I was realizing that now, crowded cities were dangerous place to travel, so I edged my way along the outer cities, keeping to my rooftops and grabbing snacks from gas stations and drug stores. I restored my supply of pens every few weeks, when possible, but I was literally on my last few tens, and I wouldn't last much longer. I didn't beg; I couldn't beg. Too many chances for people to stare me straight in the face, trying to see if I'm a druggie or an honest homeless guy. Seeing as I was neither of those, there was no point in pulling on that thread. I rationed out my food, making sure to only buy things that would last a while and keep me going. And the dog, of course.

Собака didn't seem to mind the hours of walking, and to be perfectly frank, I enjoyed his company, however silent he was. Sometimes I'd talk out loud to him, which made it much easier to think. I almost had to reteach myself to speak; years of silent killing and taking orders left me with a gruff, gravelly voice. No matter how long I muttered at that dog, he always looked at me with a look of complete adoration and fascination. He was never bored, and for some reason, that helped me.

* * *

Eventually, we made it to D.C.. It was just as I remembered it: busy, full of tall white buildings and statues of men from the past, and still very frightened by the past events.

Собака and I snuck around the city, trying not to be too conspicuously inconspicuous, if you understand, and I always kept my left hand in the pocket of my jacket. I had been careful to conceal it before, but I had to take even more precaution now. Any glimpse of metal could give me away, and that would prove disastrous.

I was out of money, I was hungry, and I had dog to take care of. My remaining rations wouldn't last, and the tidbits of vitamin stuffs in my uniform pants were gone, too. Even if they weren't, I probably wouldn't use them. As my memory returned, I began to recall more and more clearly the cruelty of HYDRA, and now, the very thought of them brought a disgusted leer to my face. But I didn't have time to lament the horrors of HYDRA. I was on a mission, a mission to remember, and remembering required food, and to get food, I needed money.

I racked my brain for ideas on how to get some income. I couldn't get a legitimate job, even if I knew how the system worked; I would be recognized immediately.

What could I do?

I racked my brain, but found nothing. I could remember nothing about jobs. The only thing even close to job that I could even barely remember me having was being in the military and even that was fuzzy.

I sat down on a curb and glared at my boots, still hiding my left hand and keeping my eyes down. Собака snuffled my ear and sat next to me. I gently nudged him off and absently scratched his neck, still deep in thought.

I was still thinking (and coming up empty) when suddenly, a small lump of bills landed at my feet. I flinched and looked up, forgetting to keep my face hidden. I caught the gaze of an elderly man, who nodded at me and kept walking on his way. I blinked and ducked my head again. Thank God he'd been old. Perhaps age kept him from realizing who I was, or maybe he just didn't read the paper. In any case, I felt grateful and I gently picked up the money. I was slightly confused, however. I hadn't been begging, just thinking, and _voilà_ , money. I wonder how he knew what I was thinking.

He had tossed me about ten dollars, which would be enough for a real meal for both me and Собака. I waved it at him, and he sniffed it, wagging his tail. I felt a trace of smile cross my face.

"Tonight," I said. "We feast."

Собака danced in a circle and yipped with delight.

* * *

After a good meal and good night's sleep, I found it much easier to think. I still had no idea how I was going to earn another meal, but the old man's offering had given me an extra sliver of hope.

I was walking through a small downtown area, looking at my feet and brainstorming, when I heard a clatter from inside one of the shops I was passing. I glanced up, looking through the window. A man had dropped a tray, and shattered a pair of wine glasses on the floor. But as my eyes unfocused, losing interest in the source, I suddenly caught sight of my own reflection.

I hadn't looked into a mirror since… I didn't know when. I had never thought about my appearance.

My hair was tangled and grimy, my face covered in a thick-ish stubble and blotchy with dirt. My clothes were a dingy, weathered version of their original color, and a faint bloodstain could be seen where I had been shot by that police officer. It felt like so long ago. My jeans had holes forming in the knees, and my hat sweat stained. I locked eyes with my reflection, and saw empty, blue-rimmed holes, devoid of emotion. My own expression frightened me, and now I saw why the old man had given me money even though I hadn't asked for it.

I was lost. I was lost and didn't know where to go.

I had always had somewhere to go, even though I was with HYDRA. I had a spot on the shelf, or a spot in the field, but I always had a place. Now I had to choose my own place, and I had no idea what to choose, or where to go, or who to be. I realized that up till that point, I had merely been surviving. Stealing what I needed to survive. Buying just enough to survive. Traveling to survive. Hiding to survive. Even in my searching for myself, I had been simply surviving. Now I realized that I didn't want to survive.

I wanted to live.

I stared into my reflection's eyes for a while, running my image over in my head. I don't know why, but for some reason, seeing myself made me feel like I actually existed. I wasn't a ghost.

However, the shopkeeper must've found my gaze discomforting. He stepped outside his shop and looked at me.

"Are you all right, sir?" he inquired.

"Fine," I said distractedly, my voice still sounding unused.

"Did you… see something that you wanted?" the shopkeeper asked.

"No," I replied. Then I remembered that I was staring into a window. People could see my face just as well as I could. "No, I'm good. Lost in thought." I nodded at him as I pulled my hat brim down and started to walk around him. "Thank you, anyway."

I trotted off with Собака at my heels with new purpose.

* * *

Earning money was easier than I thought. I know it sounds horrible, but the best people to help were the elderly. They were more trusting and generous (most of the time), and would let me help them with heavy things, getting on buses, and the like, whereas the younger people would look at me with disdain, or simply not look at me at all; they often have their eyes glued to their phone or their significant other. That's not say that there weren't some younger people who let me help them. Every once in a while I would come across a young woman struggling with groceries or a flat tire, and I would ask from a distance if she needed anything. Having Собака with me definitely helped with my first impression—a happy dog means a good man, right?—but I soon learned that smiling helped as well. (A happy dog and a happy man is even better, right? Right.) I didn't always get paid or tipped or whatever, but it felt satisfying to know that I was repaying mankind—little by very little at the most—for some of the hurt I had caused them.

Bit by bit, my dollars and quarters and spots of spare change added up, and I had enough steady income to keep both Собака and I fed, with some to spare. I bought a pair of leather gloves so that I could openly use my left hand, and a pair of cheap sunglasses in case of emergency disguise. I even found a cheap laundromat, and washed my clothes.

Between finding mini jobs, I located the Air and Space museum, which was massive. It looked like it was made entirely of metal and glass, and looking at it in the bright sun hurt my eyes. I would get in as soon I could could, but in the meantime, I kept up with the news. My image and accusations were in every paper, in the same place, every time. Apparently no one read the papers, because I was able to walk around wherever I wanted and nobody seemed to notice. Maybe they didn't expect me to walk around in broad daylight, or have a dog. Maybe they didn't even believe I was actually alive. Either way, it worked for me.

After teaching myself the in and outs of earning money and keeping it, I went to the museum. I had seen other attractions like it, and they all cost a good deal, so I had to make sure that I had enough money. I brought every penny I had, so that when they demanded money, I'd be ready; I had waited this long, and I was getting in.

I got to the doors, leading Собака after me, still keeping my head down. There were a few security guards outside, and I could catch the silhouettes of a few more inside.

I had placed a hand on the door handle when a voice barked:

"Sir!"

I froze, turned toward the speaker, and tried to act like a normal human being.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, putting as much confusion as I figured was necessary into my voice.

"Your dog," said the speaker, a plump security guard with a goatee. "He has to stay outside."

I glanced down at Собака, who was wagging his tail slowly and panting happily.

"Sorry," I returned to the guard.

"No problem," the guard said. "You can just take him home and come back."

I couldn't resist giving the guard a disgusted look. "I live far away."

"Well… then, maybe tie him up somewhere."

"Alright," I said, and stalked away.

"And make sure you don't leave anything dangerous in your backpack!" the guard called after me. "Just letting you know now."

I ignored him.

There was a tree nearby, which offered decent shade. I tied Собака to it, giving him a decent amount of walking space and tying my backpack to the tree as well, because yeah, I had a lot of dangerous stuff in that thing.

"Guard that with your life," I told Собака seriously, crouching in front of him. He snuffled my ear again, trying to shove me over with his head. I grabbed his ears and scratched them vigorously. He made a happy groaning sound and closed his eyes. I scoffed softly and stood up, patting his head one last time before heading back toward the building.

"Stay," I said. "I'll be back."

He made a mewling sound and lay down, watching me as I upped the steps and went into the building.

The first thing that hit me was the sudden temperature change. It had been hot outside, and now my skin tingled where metal met flesh. It smelled pleasantly of dust and brick, and airplanes hung from the ceiling. There were all sorts of people milling around, pointing at this and looking at that; families with children and elderly couples. I could see the twin signs portraying the bust of Captain America himself off at a distant doorway. Fantastic!

There was, however, one teeny, tiny, problem.

A full station of metal detectors stood between me and my destination. Security guards were running detector sticks over people, telling them to empty their pockets and searching through bags and backpacks, showing them to some lockers to put their bags. Thank God I hadn't brought my backpack in here; I still had my old gear in there.

I wasn't worried about the metal detectors. The HYDRA mechanics has installed a series of sensors in my metal arm that kept it and other any metal weapons on my person from setting of detectors like that. What did worry me was the fact that I was about to walk into a building with my face in it, with security personnel that probably knew what my face looked like, and were ready for me if I ever appeared.

I took a death breath and got in the line. As I got closer and closer, I pulled my hat brim down lower and lower. I put my jacket collar up, too.

Finally, it was my turn. I stepped forward.

"Empty your pockets, please," the guard said in a bored voice. He didn't even look at me.

I emptied my pockets onto the conveyor belt: about 100 dollars in cash (all the cash I had), my pocket-sized notebook, a pen, a granola bar, and a paperclip that I assumed came from the original owner of my pants.

"Step through, please," the guard droned.

I walked through the metal detector, and I wasn't disappointed. The sensors worked as well as they always had, and I passed through without incident. I noticed a sign that listed all the things that one could not bring into the museum:

* * *

THESE ITEMS ARE PROHIBITED:

• Monopods

• Tripods

• Selfie sticks

• Guns

• Knives

• Pen knives

• Pets

• Food and drink

• Scissors

• Aerosol cans

• Tools

• Smoking

• Placards, signs, or banners

 _Thank you for your cooperation_.

* * *

I had no clue what a selfie stick was, but I was sure glad I had left my backpack outside.

The guard handed me my stuff back, including the granola bar, which probably fell under the "no food or drinks" section. (He kept the paperclip though, for some reason.)

"Just don't eat it in here and you'll be good," he said, meaning the granola.

"Okay," I answered. Of course I wouldn't eat it in here. That was one of my "emergency rations". I saved those for when I got really hungry but didn't want to spend money. Speaking of money, I did have one question: "Do I have to pay?"

"Nah. It's free."

"Oh."

"Move along, you're holding up the line."

I skedaddled, weaving through the people toward the Captain America museum, not quick believing what an idiot that guard was. He had just let possibly the most wanted assassin in the current U.S. into this museum; he never even looked at my face once! Not that I was complaining, of course.

As I entered the museum, a huge mural greeted me. Steve Rogers was on the front, on his uniform, saluting proudly with an American flag as his background.

Then I was looking over my shoulder at a poster of the same man, only he pointing at me with a smirk. The real man sat next to me at a counter, but he was blurry.

The memory faded, but I ripped out my pocket notebook and scribbled it down. I noticed that it stayed much clearer this time.

I moved on, looking around and the different facts up on the walls. A male voice spoke over the air, narrating the life of Steve Rogers.

" _A symbol to the nation… A hero to the world._ "

I wandered around the museum, my original mission of searching for myself momentarily forgotten in the history of the man who called me "friend". He hadn't always been able to beat me. He had been extremely short and weak in his early years, until being injected with a serum that increased his metabolism, enlarged his muscles, and enhanced him in almost every possible way. They had a life sized version of pre-serum Steve and post-serum Steve, but the image of pre-serum Steve in his uniform sent me rocking.

 _I saw him looking up at me from the ground with a bloody nose and a sheepish grin. I saw him sitting on a couch with his head in his hands and my hand on his shoulder. I saw him looking me in the eyes and yelling at me, trying to make me understand something._

How ironic.

 _Well, guess what, Steve_? I thought. _I'm starting to understand._

I wrote down those memories, too, and trekked on.

The narrator voice kept talking, but I ignored it, staring at the words on the walls until I felt they were engrained into my head. I had found the history of his family—apparently his mom's name was Sarah, which explained why that name had randomly stuck with me (of all names)—and was still gazing at it when the narrator's voice broke into my mind:

"… _Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers_ …"

My head shot up toward the sound. That name. The name that Steve had said belonged to me. I remembered my original mission and moved forward, looking around for any sign of... Well, _me_. It felt weird, looking for myself in a crowd instead of some political gangster to shoot.

"… _were inseparable on both schoolyard…_ "

I quickly stepped through the groups of people, entering a section that showed five dummies wearing costumes in front of another mural, and in the mural, just off to the right, was a portrait of the man I used to be, next to the friend I used to have.

"… _and battlefield._ "

I couldn't believe it. It was me. I stood and gawked at the wall, shocked at the realization. I turned around and saw a glass slab, glowing blue from a light source near the base. I slowly walked toward it, staring at it, for etched into it at the top, for all to see, were the words:

 _A FALLEN COMRADE_

And near the bottom:

Bucky Barnes

1917-1944

A portrait of Bucky was on there, too, and he was definitely me.

The slab went on to tell the tale of Bucky Barnes, of how he had been best friends with Steve Rogers since their childhood years, and how that friendship had saved him from HYDRA. They had gone on together and dominated the battlefield, till one day, Barnes fell off from a moving freight train on the side of a mountain and died.

 _I flailed, reaching for his hand, my fingers brushed his gloves, and my weight slipped; the rail snapped, and I fell, screaming as he reached for me…_

I didn't bother to write it down.

I could barely breathe. I stared at the slab, frozen, mouth ajar. I had been holding onto the hope that maybe I really was this person, that I was someone, but I had never really believed it. Now I had proof. Proof that I had a name. I wasn't the Winter Soldier, or the Asset, or the masked assassin. My name was Bucky. My name was Bucky Barnes, and I had a life to take back.

I pressed my lips together tightly, and I glared at the glass slab, setting myself with firm resolve.

I was glong take my life back, and no one was going to stop me.

No one.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **A/N: So now Bucky has figured himself out. Mostly. Yay!**

 **I've never been to D.C., or at least, not that I remember, and so I have no clue what it really looks like in the Smithsonian National Museum of Air and Space. Yes, that is where the Captain America exhibit was located in the movie. I looked up some pictures, the cost to get in, and security rules, so I think I've got it pretty much okay. If you see a flaw, or have actually been there, please tell me so that I can fix it, or if you want, just keep it to yourself and move on. (I'd prefer you tell me though. Grammar and spelling mistakes, too.)**

 **Bucky does indeed had sensors in his arm. Those are canon; I did NOT make those up. Very good for Bucky!**

 **And now, _haldirflet,_ Bucky moves on... TO ROMANIA. **

**However, this new entry is over six pages long, so please be happy with this for a while. It's 1:14 AM where I live, and I'm half dead. I've stayed up till past 3:00 AM writing this every day, for about a week now, so the next entry might take a little longer. I might write some short Gravity Falls stuff though...**

 **Anyway, ciao for now!**

 **\- IamMeWhoAreYou14**


	8. He Belongs To Me

**A/N: I don't own Bucky or the MCU, but Собака is mine. No touchy my puppy. Real life has taken away enough of my dogs.**

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **Finally, after months of searching and confusion, I had what needed.** I copied down every word on that slab, including my dates of birth and alleged death. As I wrote them down, the little bits and pieces that I had stored up previously started to make sense, and I felt like a bridge was forming between me and the void in my head.

I copied down a few other things on the walls, like the name of the unit I had been in and some of the names of the other soldiers that had served in that unit as well. Dum Dum Dugan and Monty were two of those. As I walked past the costumed dummies, I looked at their blank, white faces, and I could almost picture the faces that went with them. I glanced at the one in the front, and recognized it almost immediately. That uniform belonged to me. I was wearing it when I fell.

I shuddered and left the exhibit. As I left, I wondered why Steve Rogers's uniform—which I could indeed remember—wasn't up there. It was his original, so why wasn't it–?

Oh.

He had been wearing the last time I saw him. A vision of him turning and saluting me flashed into my head.

I suppressed that annoying feeling of guilt and stalked away. I passed a brochure box, stopped, and snagged one, just for the heck of it. Who knew? Maybe it would have information as well.

I exited the building, ignoring the dull "have a nice day" from the security guard, and heading toward the tree where I had left Собака.

Except he wasn't there. The leash was there, and my bag was there, but the dog was not.

"Собака?"

He could have run away, obviously, but he'd been with me for so long, it didn't seem like he would now. I looked at the leash. It hadn't been chewed through. It had been untied.

A yelp rang out.

I spun around towards the sound. "Собака? Where are you?"

Another loud bark that elongated into a howl met my ears. I walked briskly in the direction of the howl. Snarling erupted from behind a public restroom, followed by: "Hold him, would you?!" I picked up the pace, turning the corner of the restroom.

Two men in blue uniforms stood outside a white van with the words "Washington Humane Society Animal Control and Care" written on the side. A small cabinet in the side of the van was open as one man held Собака down with a retractable wire noose, while the other attempted to shove the dog inside. Собака whined when he saw me, trying even harder to wriggle free.

"Hey!" I shouted.

Neither man looked up, nor ceased what they were doing. They gave one last shove on Собака's rear end and slammed the doors shut. I took three very large steps forward.

" _Hey_!" I roared again.

The men seemed to be deaf. They got into the van, started it up, and started to drive away. I trotted up behind the vehicle, waving at them.

"Stop!" They didn't even notice I was there.

They pulled further and further away, never bothering to look back to see if anyone was behind them. I could hear Собака barking frantically in his cage, scratching at the vented door.

The van got onto the main road and drove off, leaving me behind. I could've easily overtaken it, yanked the door off, and let Собака free. But I knew there were people everywhere, and a man overtaking a moving van and ripping it apart with his bare hands would definitely draw attention. I had to catch up a different way.

I ran back to the tree and picked up my backpack, throwing it over my shoulder. I scanned what I knew of the city in my head. I had never seen a Washington Humane Society Animal Control and Care building anywhere. Granted, I had never been looking for anything of the sort.

I figured the best way to get Собака back was to find the Washington Humane Society center and see if I could find him there. I wasn't sure what they were going to do to him, but it was the best I could do at the moment.

I found a nice looking couple with two children and walked up to them, trying not to seem too much like a murderer.

"Do either of you know where the Washington Humane Society is?" I asked. One of their two kids latched onto my left leg. I placed my hand on his head and waited for an answer as the father grabbed his kid off my leg and placed him on his shoulders.

"Well, do you know where the One Eight Distilling place is? The one with the copper vats?" the woman said, pointing vaguely over my shoulder.

I shook my head. She frowned thoughtfully while her husband wrestled their second child into his stroller. She pointed again.

"It's on New York Avenue," she said. "Its about twenty minutes away, when the traffic is good."

I nodded and smiled gratefully. "Thank you ma'am."

"No problem," she said. "You gonna get a dog?"

I paused. "Yes."

She grinned, and then tilted her head a little and peered at me.

"You almost look familiar when you smile like that…" she said. I stopped smiling. She shook her head and waved her hands awkwardly. "Sorry, that was weird. New York Avenue." She began to push the stroller away. Her husband flinched at a small hand being dug into his eye. "I hope you find a good dog."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "I will. Thank you."

I turned and ran. That had been close, but at least I knew where to go now. I knew where New York Avenue was; I had passed it tens of times. Twenty minutes by car in good traffic, she had said. I could easily run it in half that time, but I was constricted to a casual jog. It would take me an hour at least.

I considered my options as I went along. I got an idea. I ducked behind a building, made sure the coat was clear, and then leaped up onto the roof. Then I sprinted away, making sure to keep low. In the distance, I actually caught sight of the van. I'd be caught up in no time.

* * *

I actually made it to there before the van did.

I ran up to the building, knowing the van was behind me. I ducked behind a bush and waited for them to arrive. To get Собака into the building, they'd have to get him out of the van. I'd step out when he was safely out and ask for him back. Simple as that.

A few minutes after I hid, the van pulled up. It parked and the two men hopped out.

"That traffic was BS man," the first one remarked.

"Dude, the traffic is like that 75% of the time," the other one countered.

"The traffic here is always crappy."

"Touché, bro."

They unlocked Собака's cell, and he started barking anxiously. The first man took up the wore noose and gestured for his partner to open the door. Together, the two men got Собака out of the truck. Собака whined as they prepared to take him in inside. Then I think he recognized my scent, because he suddenly snarled and yanked the pole noose out of his captors hands, tumbling over backward. The man yelled and dived for the pole, while his partner partner pulled out a Taser.

I stepped out from behind the bush and ran forward. "Don't do that!"

Both men looked up in surprise. One rolled their eyes.

"Sir, we are not taking this animal to be eaten at a Chinese restaurant, and no we do not want these animals to suffer because we're total d–"

"That's my dog," I said.

"Oh." The man with the Taser said. "He doesn't look like he has an owner."

"The leash tying him to that tree didn't tell you?" I asked.

"People ditch dogs all the time, sir," the man explained. His partner struggled to keep Собака still. "That's what this looked like."

I nodded. "Understandable. But he's mine."

"He doesn't have a tag. We have to take him in."

"But he's mine," I repeated. "He belongs to me."

"Sir, he is untagged and we couldn't find a chip on him. We don't know if he's had any shots, or if he could have rabies." He shrugged and gave a tug on Собака, who almost hissed in response. "We have to take him in."

I was beginning to get frustrated. I took another step forward. "He belongs to me."

"Has he had his shots?" the man inquired. Собака snarled.

"I don't know," I spat. "He just started following me one day."

"He has to come with us then, sir," the man said stubbornly. "We can't have a dog of this size running about without his shots."

I was very tempted to give that man some shots. "He's not dangerous."

The man looked down skeptically at the growling dog, who was just barely being contained by his partner. "He seems fairly dangerous to me."

I had had enough. I finished the distance between us and placed my right hand firmly on his chest, slamming him against the side of the van. He gasped, staring at me in fear as his Taser hit the ground. His partner let go of the pole noose, and Собака jumped to his feet, limping away from them. The man fumbled around with his belt and produced a Taser as well, which he aimed at me and fired. One of the needles struck me in the neck, and my head jolted backward as electricity ran through my body. Fortunately, the initial effect quickly wore off, and I reached up with my left hand, plucked out the needle and tossed it away, never loosening the pressure on the man's chest. I looked him in the eye; I made sure I was close enough for the man to feel my breath as I told him:

"I'm very sure that this dog is not half as dangerous as I could be."

I stepped away, giving him one last shove to the ground before turning to Собака, reaching down and snapping the wire noose with my left hand. Собака licked my hand, then snarled at the two men behind me. I looked back at them. The second man was helping his partner stand up, and both were staring at me in a mixture of fear, annoyance, and awe.

"He belongs to me," I repeated quietly and paused. "Sorry about that."

With that, I sprinted away, Собака at my heels.

As we ran, I cursed myself. I knew they would likely follow me, or at least alert the authorities. I had made a dangerous move. I had just given my identity to two fairly intelligent people, and possibly given away my abilities. And I did attack them, to some degree. It was a stupid move. I almost couldn't believe it. I never gave away my intentions or identity when on a mission, and never for such a stupid reason.

Had I?

A glimmer of red hair danced through my head, but no memories rose.

Yes. I had done that before, but for whom?

I waited and still nothing came to me.

I looked down at the dog loping along next to me, tongue flapping.

I mentally kicked myself and ran on.

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **A/N:** I am so sorry for the epic wait. I've been swamped down with school, coding, martial arts, church, violin, Civil Air Patrol... I've been dead basically.

Anyway— A mini adventure! There's always something to keep Bucky from his mission. I'm already about halfway done with the next chapter, but I'm vending this weekend (PRAY THAT IT RAINS OR SNOWS OR THE EQUIPMENT GET BURNED UP PLEASE MY GOD) at a really big event so I'm gonna be out of action again. Of course. I'll try though!

Thanks to **Mellia** **Bee** for their super helpful reviews! ㈴1


	9. Drugbusters and Airplanes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bucky. I'm not sure why I'm still saying this, because it's pretty obvious and I've already said it about ten thousand times. But Собака is mine, and so are the police officers, and Enrique. (SPOILER ALERT)

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **I spent the next week or so hiding in the shadows.** I didn't search for work like I usually did. I only spoke when I needed to, and I made sure to keep Собака out of sight. He was a good dog though, and he would usually stay seated if I left him with some food. I think he understood, a little bit, the importance of keeping low, especially after almost being dragged off that day. I have to admit it: I really liked that dog. A lot. He stuck with me like no one else had in a long time. All he asked for in return was a few tacos and tummy rubs.

I didn't mind having to stay low for a while. I needed time to process what I had learned at the museum, and maybe conjure up some new memories.

Even though I kept quiet, I slaved day and night to find a way to get out of the country. I wasn't welcome. I was a gun-wielding, knife-throwing, grenade-tossing murderer with only one purpose: kill. At least that's what the papers and news channels said. I did find it quite interesting and almost amusing that I was living (more or less) peacefully among the same people who viewed me as a terrorist who shot everything in sight. I suppose that was the real terror of a true terrorist: they lived with you and shined your shoes and ate your food until one day it wasn't your food they were after. Your neighbor was your killer.

I couldn't blame them for wanting me dead.

Yes, dead. Of course dead. You don't give a terrorist a trial. Anyone willing to kill the innocent for a wicked cause doesn't deserve a trial. Anyone who gets called to get me will come in with loaded weapons and orders to kill on sight. As they should. However, I knew that wasn't a terrorist. I had been used. I hadn't done anything willingly. But I knew what I did, even if it was while under their control; I did it all the same. I still didn't want to die yet; my will to live and be something outside of a tool was greater than any thought of the justice that should be thrust upon me, even if I didn't fully deserve it. If anything, I would find the people who caged me up and took me apart and reassembled me into a killing machine, and I would give them the justice that they did deserve.

Despite this, I still felt guilty. I kept telling myself that it wasn't really me—I was James Buchanan Barnes, a simple soldier who happened to fall under the control of a group of Nazis. I told myself this as many times as I told Собака to be quiet, but every time I did I would remember standing over a body with my hand on their throat, gazing out of the automaton that I had become as I choked them lifeless with my one good hand.

Ha. My one good hand.

As if I could just wash off the blood and it wouldn't be a murder weapon.

After about a week or so, I started to reintroduce myself to the public. I took more odd jobs, smiled frequently to throw off the scary killer vibes, and waved at people as I walked past. I maintained a friendly personality, which wasn't in itself a ploy, but it was part of one. To seem less like the man that the paper described. All the while I was figuring out how to get out of America without alerting everyone that I was.

Fortunately, it isn't difficult at all to find ways to make my exit. Most of them wouldn't work, though. Car was out of the question. The chances of getting pulled over by a policeman, who would undoubtedly recognize me, were too great. Also, I had no license, and more importantly, no car. On top of that, a quick look at a map of America told me that unless I wanted to drive through Russia (Russia was the las place I wanted to be) or Mexico (I was there once on a mission, and half the people I saw there probably had more kills that I did), I wasn't going anywhere. Boat was an idea, but it took too long. It would give people far too much time to figure out who I was. Plane was preferred. Unfortunately, after only a few minutes of research, I learned that it wasn't as simple as getting on the aircraft and waiting till you touched down. There was a series of tasks that you had to complete before you could even buy a ticket. Then they scanned you in every way possible to make sure you weren't a terrorist.

Apparently, back in 2001 there was an attack on America by a group of terrorists, who hijacked four passenger planes and crashed three of them into various buildings, killing everyone in the planes and thousands more in the process. The fourth crashed into a field and killed all the passengers in there as well. After that, the security in airports was increased exponentially, and as the years went by and more threats were made, the efforts to keep the planes safe were only doubled.

Consequently, you had to have a passport, which was acquired using various forms of proof of identity. If you had a bad record with the law or didn't have a drivers license (ha), you weren't going anywhere. On top of that, if you managed to get a ticket, they patted you down, scanned you, and put you through at least two different metal detectors. Occasionally they even made you strip down to make sure you didn't have anything under your clothes that the scanners couldn't get. Then they searched your luggage, backpacks, shoes; the list went on. They didn't allow liquor of any kind, foods, and definitely not any firearms or knives. Pets had to ride on separate planes altogether. The list went on.

Immediately, I knew flying legally was not an option. Even if I left my weapons, Собака, and managed to get ahold of a passport and ID, and got through the metal detectors, as soon as they frisked me they would feel the metal of my left arm or force me to take off my shirt and see that: whoop, we have an America's most wanted in our airport. Sitting down on a third class airline was not an option.

I kind of missed having an extraction crew.

I also discovered that it's just as hard to get ahold of your own plane, much less run off with it. You still had to have a license, the planes cost an arm and a leg, and most of those planes weren't meant to fly over the ocean. A storm could knock one of those things right out of the sky. I may be a physically enhanced super soldier, but I would not last in the middle of the ocean.

I decided that the only way was to hitchhike.

Not that that was any easier.

I felt something warm on my feet. I looked up from my notebook and my thoughts at Собака, who had just laid down on my dirty boots. He yawned as I reached over and scratched him behind the ears. He licked my hand, then rested his head on his paws and drifted off to sleep.

I smiled at him. I knew this dog would follow me wherever I went, and I would do pretty much anything to keep him out of harms way. He was my best friend. My only friend.

Then it hit me.

How would I bring him with me? If I planned to hitchhike on a plane, how could I bring him? I glanced back down at my dog, illuminated by the faint light of my pocket lantern. He snored softly, his paws twitching. I bit my lip. There had to be a way. I'd find a way.

I rested my head against the brick wall of the alley, notebook still open in my lap. Then I heard police sirens heading my direction. I quickly switched off the lantern and stuffed it into my backpack, shoved the bag into a trashcan, pressed the top on firmly, then curled up as close to the wall as possible. They probably weren't after me, but I couldn't take any chances. The sirens got closer and closer. I held my breath.

"They aren't coming for me," I thought. "I've been too careful."

Собака whined and stood up, his head low. Red and blue lights flashed across the alley walls, and the sound of the sirens echoed loudly as I heard brakes skid to a halt. Собака barked, and I tried to grab at his collar, pulled my legs out of view.

" _Собака_!" I hissed. " _Lay down!_ "

Car doors opened and slammed shut. Собака nipped at my hand. Loud footsteps came running toward us. Suddenly, bright lights blazed in my face and I shrunk away, letting go of Собака's collar and covering my eyes.

"Put your hands on your head and get on the ground!"

I ducked my head low and raised my hands in the air. It was very possible that they didn't know who I was. If they did know, they would have shot me already, and it would've been a SWAT team, not just the police.

"I said put your hands on your head and get on the ground!"

A foot struck me across the face and I fell sideways into a trashcan. I covered my head with my arms and shut my eyes. A knee planted itself on my back, pressing me into the ground. Air squeezed out of my lungs. I could hear Собака growling and barking. Someone yelled, "Calm that dog down!"

Собака let out a shuddering yelp and went quiet. They had Tasered him. I sighed in relief. I thought they would shoot him for a second, and then I'd have to rip some heads.

"Sir, you have the right to remain silent," the man on my back said. He grabbed my right wrist and clapped a handcuff over it. My eyes shot open. As soon as he touched my left hand, he'd know for sure who I was… I yanked my left arm off my head and buried it under me. Immediately, my right arm was twisted and the man shoved my face into the ground.

"Give me your hand, sir!" he shouted. "Give me your hand!"

I didn't move. I didn't really have a choice either way.

"Sir, I'm warning you! Give me your hand!"

I wriggled my arm further underneath me.

Something cold and hard pressed into the back of my head. A gun. I froze.

"Give me your hand!" the man screamed.

"What did I do?" I shouted. "What did I do?!"

"Give me your hand!" he yelled.

I gritted my teeth. I couldn't get out without resisting arrest, which was illegal, and I couldn't get that gun away from my head without giving him my hand, which I really didn't want to do. I had to make a choice. I huffed.

"I'm giving you my hand," I shouted. I started to pull my arm out from under me, and the gun was removed from my head and replaced with a fist; someone punched me hard in the head, twice. I was a super soldier, but this guy was probably twenty pounds heavier, and obviously had training. My vision clouded slightly, and my jaw went slack. The man grabbed my left wrist and yanked it behind back, handcuffing it and placing the gun to my head again.

"You are being arrested for the illegal distribution of drugs to underage citizens!"

What he said ran through my brain a few times, and then I laughed. It was a sarcastic chuckle, and the man on my back was clearly surprised by it.

"Drugs?" I said, my voice muffled. "Sir, you have the wrong guy. I haven't touched drugs once in my life."

He hadn't noticed my metal arm. Thank God.

"We'll see about that," the man said. His weight lifted from my back, and I sucked in oxygen. He was heavier than I thought. The gun never left my head as I was yanked to my knees. I kept my face down out of fear that they would see me and recognize who I was. However, I wasn't about to not defend myself against these claims of my selling of drugs.

"Sir, you can't arrest me. I have never touched, used, sold, or given away drugs ever, nor will I ever endeavor to do so," I said loudly, but calmly.

"Wow, this one went to school at some point," someone muttered.

"Get a dog to search me," I said. "It won't find anything."

"You better hope not." The man gestured to another officer. "Get the K-9."

I sat still, wishing that gun muzzle would move. It did, and was replaced by a dog's muzzle. The dog growled softly as he sniffed every inch of me. His cold nose touched my face and I tried not to smirk. It was just like Собака. Then I grew worried; what if the dog sniffed out my gun in the trashcan? Was Собака even alright? I didn't move as the dog completed his search. It barked an all clear and circled its handler, panting happily.

"See?" I said, still keeping my eyes on my knees. "No drugs."

"Maybe," the man said, sounding skeptical. "Why are you here at this hour?"

I tried not to sound disgusted. "Seeing as I have nowhere else to live, I figured this place would be a nice place to hang for a night or two."

"Oh," the man said, slightly embarrassed. "What's your name?"

Now there's a question I hadn't been prepared to answer. For a split second, my mind blanked. Only one name came to mind: Bucky. I couldn't say that. I had to think of something else.

"Sebastian Stan," I said, without skipping a beat. Despite my split second of confusion, I was trained to handle interrogation easily. Now I just hoped I hadn't accidentally chosen the name of the man they really wanted. I had no idea where I got that name.

"ID?" the man questioned.

"My wallet was stolen a few weeks ago," I said, thanking God I had left it in my backpack. "I don't have a drivers license."

"Do you know who stole it?"

"No, sir. If I did, I'd have it back by now."

"Mind if we check?"

"Do I have a choice?"

The man responded by quickly frisking me.

"He doesn't have a wallet," the man said to the other officer. He turned back to me. "This your dog?"

I turned my head and looked at Собака, who was laying on the ground, muzzled with another wire noose around his neck. I gritted my teeth.

"Yes, sir. He is," I said, probably a little more sharply than I should have. "Can you let him out of that?"

"He attacked us."

"You attacked me. He retaliated."

" _Fair point_ ," the second officer muttered to himself. The first man elbowed him.

"Where were you yesterday at 9:00 PM?" the man asked me.

"I was buying tacos from the taco truck near the 7/11," I replied. I had been. And I did tonight, too. Собака and I had breath to prove it.

"Okay, sir. I'm very much inclined to let you go." The man holstered his gun. "But before we do, we're gonna drive you on down to the taco truck and see if they can vouch for your alibi."

I praised the Lord internally. I had been to that taco truck so many times, Enrique would know me on sight. (Yes, the taco-truck man's name is Enrique. He speaks mostly Spanish. I can understand every word he says. I'm not sure why. No preguntes por que, por favor.)

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Please get in the car," he said.

I stood up, walking to the car. The man kept a hand on my neck the entire time. I made sure to look at my feet as I stepped into the vehicle.

"What about my dog?" I said, looking at Собака.

"We'll bring him in the other car. Get in."

I sat down, still keeping my head low. I just had to keep my head down till they talked to Enrique, and then I'd be free.

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **A/N:** I had some extra time away from school today on account of puking as soon as I got there (thank you random sickness), so I finished this chapter. The twist with the police was not actually originally planned, but of course I just went nuts.

Mellia Bee, I used a bit of your language idea here with the Spanish. I know, so basic, but it will get more interesting. He never learned Spanish as a kid, or at least not that he remembers, and he was never required to use it on a mission (I don't think), so I figured what the heck. But trust me, it'll get better. ㈴1

If you guys see any grammar mistakes, let me know. If you have time, please review. I want to know if my story is being enjoyed or needs some plot holes fixed. Plez. Assist meh frends.

P.S.: (I was really proud of myself I only had to use google translate to make sure I got the wording right on that phrase. Tenth grade Spanish class is paying off.)


	10. Write This Down

**A/N: Trying to update as regularly as possible. English class gives me a good hour to work on this a day. (It counts as English—I'm writing aren't I?) I actually find it increasingly amusing that I will spend over a year on a fanfiction and get it over 17,000 words with no clear end in sight, but when my teacher says to write a 1,000 word essay I'm like, "Eh." What gives, Me?**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.**

 **Disclaimer: I swear this is the last time I'm writing this. But Enrique, Jim, Mack, and Собака are all mine.**

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **On the way to the way to the taco bus (Enrique's Taco Truck),** I made sure to keep my eyes out the window. The left side of my face was covered in scrapes from being shoved into the gravelly floor, and I could feel a small trail of blood trickling down my face, thanks to the kick in the face. I figured if I kept my left side to them, my chances of being recognized were fairly slim.

The two officers in the front were talking to each other, and not quietly either. I glanced over, keeping my face turned to the window. One officer was locating the taco bus on his GPS, and the other was telling that no, it wasn't near that 7/11, it was near the other one, with the Circle K across the street.

I looked back out the window. I considered breaking the handcuffs off, but that would be a huge sign that I was a lot more dangerous than I looked. I just had to tough this one out and wait until my name was cleared.

We pulled up twenty minutes later at Enrique's Taco Truck, lit by a single streetlamp and the gas station next to it. The two officers got out, slamming their doors shut behind them. I looked down at my hands as one officer rolled down my window.

"You will stay in the car till we get the information we need, alright?" he said.

I nodded, not looking at him. He rolled the window up, locked the doors, and followed his partner to the taco truck. I stared after them, the noticed exactly how dark the truck was. Was it not open? I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard: 12:46 AM.

 _Говно_.

I cursed to myself. He was most definitely not there, and I had no idea where he lived. Why would I? I wasn't a creep. Or too much of a creep.

The officers rapped on the metal window, trying for ten minutes until confirming what I had already thought. Enrique was not in the shop.

I looked back down at my handcuffed hands as the officers trotted back to the car and hopped in. The second one sighed as he buckled himself in.

"Well, unless you know where that guy lives," he said to the other officer as he revved the engine up, "We're gonna have to take this guy in."

They kept talking as if I wasn't there. I actually wondered if they knew I could hear them.

"That won't be a problem," the first officer said, looking behind him as he backed out of the driveway and back onto the road. "Enrique should be pretty simple to find."

I let out a slow breath. If they took me in, they'd do fingerprints, mugshots, and maybe even blood samples. I'd be exposed within ten seconds of entering the facility. If they didn't find Enrique, it'd be the firing squad for me.

I swallowed quietly. "What about Собака?" I didn't know what else to say without sounding worried about being discovered. It was so weird. With HYDRA, I went out to kill and came back to my cryogenic chamber. I never had to worry about lying about my entire existence. This wasn't interrogation. This was just me waiting to see if I could fool my captors well enough for them to let me go without them being the wiser.

"Собака?" the second officer asked.

"My dog," I said. "What about him?"

"Well, if you end up being a drug dealer, then he'll go to a shelter. Otherwise, he'll just go back with you I guess." He shrugged. "I'd tell you to get him registered, but no one does that, and I'm not even sure if you're registered." He looked back at me through the rear view mirror. "I'm sure we just got a misinformed call and you're just a harmless guy, but our job requires us to be sure, so here we are."

"Okay," I replied, and fell silent. They already mostly believed I was innocent. I just had to keep my left arm to myself and my face to the floor and I would be fine.

—•- -•—

The computer on the dashboard blinked. I jerked my head up. On the screen was a picture of Enrique, all smiles and black mustache. The first officer sighed loudly. "Finally."

"Enrique Garcia," the second officer read off. "Address is 1757 Village Square Ct, Severn, MD 21144."

"Sweet," the first officer responded, making a u-turn. "That's only about a half hour away."

The second officer furrowed his brow. "Why doesn't this guy take his truck home?"

"Heck if I know."

Fast forward not thirty but fifty minutes later, we arrived at 1757 Village Square Ct, a sort of dingy-looking building with a brick layered first floor and a white slatted second floor. The door was dark green, and a tall maple tree sat on the front lawn. The car containing Собака pulled up behind us.

"Ugh, that was not a half hour, Jim," the first officer grumbled, unbuckling and opening his door.

Jim made a mocking sound. "Traffic is the only reason that took so long."

The first officer snorted. "Sure." He looked at the door of the building. "That guy's probably asleep."

"Well, we're here, and since you don't feel like driving another hour, let's get this over with."

"You go knock," Jim said. The first officer shut the car door and walked off. Jim looked back at me. "I'm gonna stay in here with you. Mack'll come get you if he needs you."

I just nodded. I turned to watch as Mack climbed the two steps to Enrique's front door and rapped twice.

After two or three minutes, he knocked again. This time, a light turned on, and the door opened soon after. Enrique stood there, looking very tired and mildly annoyed. He seemed very concerned about the fact that two police cars were at his house so early in the morning. He and Mack exchanged words and gestures for a few minutes, and then a young red-haired woman in a blue robe appeared behind the taco seller, resting her hands on his shoulders.

Red hair.

 _A small woman leaped in the air, turning as her foot swept around and caught me in the jaw. I felt sideways, looked up at her and grinned. Her features were blurred, but I could see her mouth as she smiled down at me and offered me a hand. I reached out, my eyes never leaving her face, and took it. As she hoisted me to my feet her face became clear: green eyes, small nose and eyebrows that always seemed to be emitting their own level of sass._

I jerked my gaze back down to my feet, gulping down the sudden feeling that rose into my throat.

Jim peered back at me. "You okay?"

"Yes," I rasped.

He looked at me suspiciously for a second, then turned back to his dashboard.

I struggled to keep a hold on the memory. I had no pen and paper. My hands were constricted even if I did. I could feel it fading.

"Sir!" I said, trying not to sound crazy. "Can you write something down for me?"

Jim turned around. "What?"

"Write something down for me," I said quickly. I felt like I was watching my life wash down a waterfall. "I need to write something down so I won't forget it. Can you..?" I trailed off. If he didn't understand what I was trying to say now, it was useless.

"Uh… okay." He shuffled around in his pockets and produced a mini notebook and a pencil. "Fire away."

"Sparring," I ejected. "She has red hair, little nose. Green eyes. She smiled at me."

He stared at me. "Come again?"

"She has red hair, a little nose, blue– no, green! She has green eyes!" I watched as he scratched away. "Did you get that?"

"Yes," he said, sounding mildly perturbed.

"She smiled at me," I added. "Put that down."

More scratching. Jim cleared his throat. "Okay, I have here: 'She had red hair, a small nose, green eyes, and she smiled at you'."

I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I had almost lost it. " _Mulțumesc_."

"Huh?"

"Thank you."

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed this. I decided Bucky hadn't had a flashback in a while, and I plan to riddle this fic with WinterWidow, so be prepared. Собака is okay. If you saw any mistakes, have any suggestions for future flashbacks or mini-adventures, or just want to say hello, please tell me so. Thanks!**

 **Also, Mellia Bee is fab.**


	11. Anything for Mi Amigo

**A/N: A little shorter than usual, but just you wait. I'm stewing something brilliant up. Hehheheheheheh.**

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **Shortly after saving that memory, Mack brought Enrique over to identify me**. As Jim rolled down the window, I turned to look at them. I hoped that my bruises and blood would cover up most of my features. I had laid low for so long—maybe most of the police force had forgotten about me. I kept my fingers crossed.

"You recognize this guy?" Mack asked the taco vender.

"Heyyyy, sí, sí," Enrique replied, grinning. He waved at me. I gave him a small smile and a "hello there" gesture with my cuffed hands.

"He is a muy good customer," he continued. "I see him almost every day!" He looked at me worriedly. "¿ _Estas en problemas_?"

I shrugged. " _Un poco problemas. He sido enmarcado._ "

Enrique nodded slowly and gave me the thumbs up sign. Mack tapped him on the shoulder, trying to get his attention.

"Sí, señor?"

"Do you know his name?" Mack asked.

"Me? ¿ _Le pregunto su nombre?_ " Enrique asked, almost offended. "No! He is a customer. If he does not offer, I don't ask. What kind of _serpiente_ you think I am?"

"But he was at your stand last night at around 9:00 PM?"

"Sí, and he got his usual: _dos tacos y una botella de agua._ One taco for him, and one for his dog." Enrique stopped and peered into the car. "¿ _Dónde está el perro_?"

"He's in the car behind us," I assured him. " _El está bien._ "

That was good enough for him. He crossed himself and turned back to Mack.

"I promise you, this man is no drug dealer. He is a good man. _Muy bueno._ " Enrique held his right hand up, as if taking an oath. "I swear on my business he is a good man."

Mack looked into the vehicle and Jim, who shrugged.

"Good enough for me," Jim said. "Alibi checks out, and he doesn't really match the description of the other guy very well anyway. I guess someone just got antsy is all."

Mack opened the door, and I sidled out of the car. I stood quietly as he unlocked the cuffs and took them off. I rubbed both my wrists, even though one didn't hurt at all.

"Sorry about that," Mack said. "But that's what we have to do."

I nodded. "I understand, sir."

"Really sorry we took you out of that cozy alley, too," Jim called from inside the car. "Here."

He got out and opened the trunk. He rustled around inside it, and then tossed a blanket at me. "This'll keep the cold off." He handed me a box of granola bars. "We usually keep these for kids in accidents or just really slow shifts but we have plenty."

He looked at my face and winced. "Sorry about your face, too, sir."

I cracked a smile to make him feel better. "It's good." I clenched my left hand. "I've had worse."

Mack waved at the second car, and another officer climbed out and opened the backdoor. She whistled, and Собака hopped out, now on a leash. She trotted over with my dog at her side. Собака saw me and did a little happy dance, looking up at the officer, trying to get her to go faster.

"Come on boy!" she said. When they pulled to a stop, she grinned at me.

"Your dog is so sweet," she said. "He and Ajax were like best friends in there." She rubbed Собака's head. "Sorry, I Tased you," she cooed to the dog. She handed me the leash. "Go ahead and keep that. And take these," she said, stuffing a handful of dog biscuits into my hand. She grinned again. "He's addicted now."

I genuinely smiled at her. "Thanks. He'll get a real kick out of having these. And thanks for the blanket."

"It's the least we can do for kicking you in the face and Tazing your dog," Jim said. Then his eyes bugged, and he scrambled to the car. He returned with the slip of paper that I had asked for earlier. "You still want this?"

I nodded. "Thank you."

"No problem." Jim looked at his watch. "Yeesh. We need to go."

He hopped into the car and started it as Mack followed. The tall, burly officer turned and gave me a look before getting in after him. "Sorry about all that."

I gave him a small wave. "You were just doing what you had to do."

He nodded at me and then stepped into the car. The car pulled away, with the second car right behind it. The woman officer waved out her window.

"Bye doggie!"

Собака yipped after her, then licked my hand, whimpering happily.

I sighed in relief. They were gone. I had made it through, and I had gained a good blanket, some food, a leash, and a handful of dog treats. That could have definitely gone much, much worse.

I turned to Enrique, who was still standing there, smiling away under his mustache. If it weren't for him, I would've lost everything I had made up to this point, maybe even my life. I owed him more that I could give.

"Gracías," I said. What else could I say? "I almost didn't make it."

"Anything for mi amigos," he replied, patting Собака on the head.

I held out my hand, and he took it, shaking it heartily.

"Come tomorrow for a taco or two, eh?" he said. "On the house."

" _Sería un idiota si no tomara su oferta,_ " I replied, grinning.

He laughed, returning the expression, and clapped me on the shoulder. He then made his way back to his front door. He turned around at the front door.

" _Hasta mañana, mi amigo_!" he called.

I waved. " _Hasta mañana_."

He turned the handle, went inside, and shut the door. I was alone again. Just me and my dog. I looked down at Собака who was happily drooling on my boot, just happy to be with me again.

"Hey, boy," I said brightly. It sounded odd, even to myself. "Let's go get our bag shall we?"

Собака yipped in response, bounding to his feet. I tossed him a biscuit and he caught it mid flight.

"Let's go then," I said, and we started off on a long walk to the alley to fetch my memories.

As we walked, I felt the piece of paper with my most recent remembrance on it. It was actually one of few memories that—when I had first brought it up—didn't send me reeling out of pain. It was a good one, and I wasn't sure why. The feeling I got when I remembered it had been different than all the others I had dug up. A good memory. This one wasn't leaving my pocket any time soon.

I reviewed the mornings events with satisfaction. Despite the fact that I had been kicked in the face, had a gun held to my head, and been accused of selling drugs, this day was turning out to be one of the best I had had in a long while.

* * *

WINTAH SOLDAH

* * *

 **A/N: For people who do not speak any Spanish, here is a translation. Sorry it's so sketchy:**

Enrique: (to Bucky) Are you in trouble?

Bucky: A little trouble. I've been framed.

Enrique (to Mack): Me ask him his name? Just what kind of snake do you think I am?

Enrique: (on Bucky's usual) Two tacos and a bottle of water. (About the dog) Where is the dog?

Bucky: (answering Enrique on the dog) He's okay.

Bucky: (on Enrique's taco offer) I would be an idiot if I passed that offer up.

Enrique: (saying bye to Bucky) See you tommorow, my friend.

Bucky: See you tomorrow.

 **Again, I apologize that's so sketchy. I figured putting translations directly in the story would screw it up, but I don't want people to be left in the dark either.**

 **Bucky is safe now. Thank God. He just has to get his bag back from the trashcan that he left it in, and boom. All good. (Heh heh.)**

 **Also, if anyone thinks that I am being racist with Enrique, please just chill. I want Enrique to be like that. Really cheery, mixes Spanish and English, has an accent and a mustache. I've always londa wanted to have a buddy like that, who's really happy and won't get mad at me when I screw up his language a bit. But yeah, before anyone says anything about stereotypes or something like, "Why don't you just give a sombrero and maracas and call it a day?" just know that I really don't mean that. I am not Spanish myself, so I don't know them or their accent or their language all that well, but I am learning, and I wanted to get a good Spanish character in. Rant is over.**

 **Btw, the apartment Enrique lives in? I lived in that exact apartment when I was four. Maryland is my homestate. If anyone in Maryland is reading this: HEY HOMIES SORRY FOR THE RIOTS.**

 **If you see any grammar mistakes or misspelled words or incorrect Spanish (lack of sleep is a heck of a drug), let me know please. Thanks!**

 **Again, thanks to Mellia Bee for her constant support. You da best!**

 **Okay, it's almost 2:00 in the morning and I have school. I didn't work on my essay or study for any of my tests so I could write more of this. I hope you enjoy, because my teachers will not. Har har.**


End file.
